


In Violet's Wake

by LynMars79



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 4.4 Spoilers, 4.5 Spoilers, A Requiem for Heroes, Angst, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Gen, MSQ reactions, Prelude in Violet, Revenant's Toll, The Rising Stones, mor dhona
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2019-07-14 15:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16043582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynMars79/pseuds/LynMars79
Summary: "Prelude in Violet" 4.4 and "A Requiem for Heroes" 4.5 spoilers. Responses and reactions from various Scion ladies (and one grumpy old crone).Lyse has time to think while watching over a friend after the eventful council meeting.F'lhaminn muses over a quieter Revenant's Toll and offers what help she can.Matoya...is Matoya about it all.Krile and Tataru try not to feel overwhelmed.





	1. Chapter 1

“Kan-E said you aren’t really there,” Lyse said quietly. “But I want to believe you can still hear me, wherever you’ve gone off to.”

Thancred’s form lay still and unanswering in the medical bed.

Lyse sighed and slumped in her chair. “It’s stupid, I guess. I’m really just talking to myself. I just...really want to be talking to you. I wish I was better at magic. I wish I could help more. But I can make sure that you’re taken care of, so _when_ you come back, you’re ready to--well, not go on a mission, maybe. Ooh, maybe if the Scions can fix this before the harvest’s end, I’ll make you take me dancing at the festivals! I remember how you used to dance with Yda, back in Sharlayan; those were such good times, back when we were all together…”

She sniffed and rubbed her suddenly stinging eyes.

“I wish she was here. I wish Papalymo was here--he would have so many ideas about what to do. And I wish Moen was here, and Minfilia, and Master Louisoix--but they’re not. It’s just...me. I’m sorry.”

Lyse sighed again, idly twirling a strand of her hair--a habit she had gotten into when thinking, now that she let her locks out of the turban she had worn for so long.

“It feels like there aren’t many of us old Circle left, y’know? I mean, I was never really an archon--but I thought about it. Still do, now and then, but...that’s not for me. And I belong here in Ala Mhigo now. I can’t just up and leave for the Sharlayan motherland.”

Lyse fixed a corner of his blanket that didn’t need fixing. “Don’t tell anyone? But I sometimes miss that place. I love Gyr Abania, but I loved the motherland, too. And our Sharlayan in Dravania, before that. And the Shroud, and Vesper Bay, and even Mor Dhona.”

She looked down at her hands, frowning. Her knuckles were knobby, rough, and scarred from a lifetime of punching her way through problems. She couldn’t punch her way through this, as often as she had joked about using the rogue as a punching bag--not that she ever really would.

Besides, she could never catch him. Even when she thought he was completely preoccupied, or even sleeping. Not when he was actually _there_ , to dodge her at the last second, with a smirk and joke.

“I liked the lands themselves well enough; there’s something good to find everywhere, if you look for it. But...what I loved most were the people. The Circle. The Scions. So, you have to come back, all right?”

He continued to not answer.

“...Please…”

Her voice sounded so small and quiet--almost childish. She remembered being a child, and waiting and waiting and _waiting_ for her father to return...

An insistent knocking at the door startled her. “Come in!” She called even as the door opened. Lyse leapt to her feet and swiped her hand over her face, hoping she wasn’t too red and streaked. “What is i--Riol? What are you doing here?”

Riol tried to give her a wan smile, but it didn’t reach his visible eye--what was it with the Scion rogues and only having one eye, seriously--as he looked at Thancred’s body resting on the bed. “A couple things, luv. One, I’ll be handlin’ his plan for the Council, on behalf o' the Scions.”

Lyse nodded. That made sense. “You’ll do just great, Riol.”

He smiled, but it was automatic and mechanical, and vanished quickly as he hesitated. “The second thing…Lyse, I’m sorry, but…”

She was suddenly cold. “What? What is it? Tell me!”

“It happened again, at the Risin’ Stones,” Riol said quietly. “Y’shtola and Urianger are both in the same state.”

The bottom fell out of the world, and she felt like she had at Baelsar’s Wall.

Helpless.

“No…”

“Mistress Alisaie wants Thancred moved back to headquarters,” he continued. “So our own mages can observe all three o’ them together.”

She distantly acknowledged that made sense. “Krile! What about Krile, is she all right?”

“So far as we know; Alianne’s been checkin’ with her and others in the field.”

“And still no word on Alphinaud,” Lyse said quietly. “How’s Alisaie?”

He sighed. “In a bad way. A bit o’ a panic when the archons fell--hells, we _all_ had a panic--but she’s made o’ stern stuff, our Alisaie,” he assured her. “And she’s got the Warrior o' Light to lean on. They ain’t far apart right now.”

Lyse nodded. “Good. Good. All right. I’ll see to the arrangements to get Thancred back to Mor Dhona.”

“Hoary’ll be along to handle that--he’s checkin’ in with Arenvald’s team right now--but I need to get goin’ and meet with Commander Aldynn.”

“Yes, of course. Thanks, Riol, for…Well, for letting me know.”

Riol nodded. “Yer welcome, though ye’ll forgive me if I wish I hadn’t had to. But it’ll get sorted out; we’ll get ‘em back.”

“Right,” she replied, punching her right fist into her left palm. Riol gave her a mock salute and left the room, with one last glance at his unmoving colleague.

Lyse was alone again, with Thancred’s too-still body.

“Looks like you’re going home,” she said, watching the barely perceptible and agonizingly slow rise and fall of his chest. “Wherever you are, Thancred, I hope...I hope Y’shtola and Urianger are with you. That you’re not alone. You’ll watch out for each other--and bring each other home. We’re waiting for you.”

She bowed her head, praying she was right, trying to quiet the cynical little voice in her mind that said these were targeted attacks, that they were being kept isolated in some other plane of existence, someplace she could never reach.

That couldn’t be true, she decided. She had to believe the archons’ spirits would find one another, that they would fight--that they would return.

Lyse was still standing there, lost in her thoughts, when they came to take Thancred's body away. She offered a weak smile and an even weaker joke--something about taking care of the stricken archons, she couldn’t properly remember later--as she stepped out into the hazy afternoon air.

A soldier came rushing up, and she found herself squaring back her shoulders and stiffening her face, falling into “Commander Hext” mode as she took his report, and then strode toward the palace to meet the Council.

Good; this was good. Commander Hext could be strong, capable, responsible, and everything else Ala Mhigo and Raubahn wanted her to be right now. She needed that; she needed to work, and focus on the missions at hand.

Because Little Sister Lyse was far too lost and scared.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apparently had more to write about this after all. This time, F'lhaminn's musings, as I'm a bit salty she has been left forgotten about at Rowena's restaurant for now, and think she ought to have some response to 4.4's events.

F’lhaminn sat at her usual table, with the best view of the Toll’s market square and main road. She was still often amazed by how different the town looked, having watched it grow over the moons since she had helped young Alphinaud convince Ascilia to move the Scions’ base to Mor Dhona.

The town seemed quiet--almost sleepy, even--in the bright afternoon light. F’lhaminn knew that both Slafborn and Rowena were discussing renewed advertising campaigns to attract adventurers and settlers to the Toll, with the Doman refugees finally able to return home. No one begrudged their leaving, of course, though there had been tears on both sides. But business was business, and the growth of the Toll was important for many reasons.

F’lhaminn found the Rising Stones far too empty without Higiri, Homei, and the others--especially the children. With the senior Scions so often busy, wrangling the children’s rambunctious attentions had oft fallen on F’lhaminn. She had never minded, enjoying their exuberance and helpful natures; it made it easy to frame various chores, errands, and other tasks as missions for them to manage, for minor rewards.

It had reminded her of the games she had played with her Ascilia years ago, focusing the girl’s anger and energy into constructive means, until her natural joy and eagerness had re-emerged. F’lhaminn had always known that boundless idealism would take Ascilia--Minfilia--far.

She just had not known  _how_ far.

She pushed aside the ache in her chest to wonder if her Doman friends had made it home safely; the girls had promised to write, at least, as Yozen would likely forget, and F’lhaminn hoped they enjoyed the presents she had sent along. If nothing else, Hozan would realize the cost of the map, and should things become difficult...Well, she rather hoped they kept it regardless. She had seen the children huddled around maps much like it often enough, imagining the places they would go and the adventures they would have when older.

They deserved to keep such dreams, even should they break their parents’ hearts.

F’lhaminn sighed and sipped her tea. Gods’ grace, she was maudlin today. As she looked to the Rising Stones across town through the spinning gleam of the aetheryte, she decided somber and heartsick to be appropriate, given current events.

There was precious little a former songstress could do about any of her friends’ circumstances, either, which only felt worse.

Light footsteps crossed the patio behind her, F’lhaminn’s ear flicking as she recognized the cadence. She turned to smile as Alisaie sat in the chair next to F’lhaminn.

“Good afternoon, Alisaie.”

The young woman grunted a response as she dropped her head on her crossed arms. That sort of day, then. Not that it was a surprise. The waiter caught F’lhaminn’s eye, but she gave him a single, subtle shake of her head. While Alisaie likely needed to eat, it would be best to suss out what she had come for--besides, perhaps, much needed fresh air and a break from her tasks in the Scions’ headquarters.

“Still no word of your brother, nor change in the others, then?” F’lhaminn asked quietly.

“No,” Alisaie sighed heavily, lifting her head enough to rest her chin on her wrists. “As frustrating as being left to mind the Stones was before, at least I knew roughly where everyone was, and that they would soon return. Now…”

“You are doing much to keep everyone busy, as well as seeking answers,” F’lhaminn said. “But you needn’t carry it all yourself.”

“I know. I do, and I honestly try not to; I am not my brother, taking every detail as a personal responsibility.”

F’lhaminn could not help a small smile at that; while a true enough assessment of Alphinaud’s managerial tendencies--especially in the wake of the Crystal Braves disaster--Alisaie had more in common with her twin’s style than was oft wise to mention.

“I...I have actually been looking to Minfilia’s leadership style as an example,” Alisaie continued, studying the tabletop. “The connections she forged as Antecedent have helped keep much of the burden off the remaining Scions, as well as helping us seek answers to whatever it is that’s happened to the Archons.”

“Then the Scions are indeed in good hands,” F’lhaminn said gently. “And I know she would thank you for taking such care of her dear friends.”

Alisaie at least smiled slightly at the warm reassurance. “I hope so,” she replied, letting out another weary sigh.

F’lhaminn reached over and brushed back a few fine, white-blonde strands that had fallen loose across the girl’s face. “Your hair needs a good wash and rebraiding,” she noted. After half a breath’s consideration, she found herself asking, “Would you like my help with that?”

It was something F’lhaminn had oft done with Ascilia, until her daughter was just a bit older than Alisaie was now, in fact, and beginning her Path of the Twelve, diving fully into her role as Antecedent Minfilia.

“I…” Alisaie hesitated, the war within herself--independence versus familiar, if not familial, comfort--was briefly visible upon her face, before she relaxed and nodded at F’lhaminn. “I think I would like that, actually.”

F’lhaminn smiled and pushed her mostly-empty tea cup aside before standing. “Let us return home, then, and see to a few basic necessities, before continuing the day’s work.”

Alisaie rose as well, walking with F’lhaminn from Rowena’s House of Splendors and down the road across the Toll to the Rising Stones.

She may not be a scholar or warrior like many of the other Scions--merely a former songstress--but though her daughter might be gone, F’lhaminn was still, always, a mother. And at least one of her colleagues needed those particular hard-learned skills for now.


	3. Louisoix's Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally thought to call on Matoya. Now she gets to ruminate while considering how to deal with the stricken Scions.

Matoya remembered when they had truly been children.

Oh, those days seemed so long ago, though the years since had passed so swiftly. Before the goblins and adventurers, before the metal monstrosity choking the Thaliak, before the Calamity had turned to rubble the remnants of a city already going to ruin--when Sharlayan, _her_ Sharlayan, had been a living, breathing town of clean white streets and gleaming buildings, full of libraries and laboratories. Back then, she had thought the noise and light to be too much, too distracting. There had been too many people, most of them incompetent or simply moronic.

She used to be so easily irritated by the laughter and play of the students. They seemed to get younger every year, with their bright eyes and nascent hypotheses they hoped would earn their Sage’s Marks. Matoya had never expected to miss those days, those sights and sounds, or even those people--not that she would allow any of them to catch her admitting it aloud, should they ask.

Not that the Scions’ Sharlayans were currently capable of asking.

She knew little of Urianger; he had been such a quiet, studious boy. Too quiet and too studious, honestly. If not for the roegadyn girl, he would never have lifted his face from his books to gain the practical experiences necessary to enter the Academy and eventually become an Archon.

Matoya ignored the brief constriction in her chest as she thought of young Moenbryda’s fate. So damnably unfair--but then, life was. And the girl’s sacrifice meant the end of an Ascian; a worthy death, at least, though it would have been fascinating to see what more she could have discovered and created in the field of aetherology.

Would Moenbryda have been afflicted with this strange malady of the soul as well? Or would she be standing by Urianger’s bedside, cursing even as she sought a cure? Oh, for that mind as sharp as her axes now...But, no use wishing for what could not be.

Matoya turned back to the now-magickless rogue. Louisoix’s pet project, some had called him; he was the pirate urchin to a few others. A charming pain in the arse, Shtola had oft grumbled. Always throwing himself headlong into one kind of trouble or another, that one; whether it be taking responsibility for an orphaned child, to juggling the attentions of multiple women, to overworking himself to the point of Ascian possession. That last experience, as well as Shtola’s desperate use of forbidden spells, had left him all the more vulnerable to this strange ailment. Thancred had been the first to fall, and so Matoya had presently focused on him and where, exactly, his soul had wandered off to.

It kept her attention away from her girl, lying not so far away and far too still for Matoya’s liking. For the memories of Shtola’s quick feet and quicker hands and still quicker tongue, her ear flicks and tail lashes and the incessant questions and chatter and noisy spellcasting, just begging for attention and approval. How many times had Matoya tried to instill patience and calm in that child, to get her to quiet her prattling? Yet now...

Her Shtola should not be so still.

Focus, silly old woman. Whining wouldn’t help anyone.

Something that girl Aenor needed to learn, as she made a whimpering noise when the door creaked open. Matoya looked up, forcing her own expression to remain neutral. Thankfully she had decades of practice at it, as she watched the soldiers in Adder yellow carry Alisaie’s slight form into the infirmary, to rest in the bed next to her recently-arrived brother. They looked for all the world like two small children simply having a nap.

At the door, Coultenet spoke in low tones with the chirurgeon who had accompanied the most recently fallen. Matoya was going to have to scold the bloody fool, as he ought to be resting while Krile handled the clueless Alliance medics. The rest of the Scion magic users were at their limits already, leaving much of the work to herself and Galuf’s girl, and those who were utterly useless with spells, such as Aenor, who could at least tend to the Archons’ bodies and move things as Matoya demanded. The Scions should have asked for help sooner, but the Crystal knew students could never tell the difference between when they ought to figure it out themselves versus actually seeking the aid of their experienced elders.

No matter. She was here now--for now, anyroad, before returning to her cave and her better resources there--and while her mind wished to entertain dozens of possible options, ‘twas her job to cut through the fanciful imaginings and learn the truth. Then, find a solution.

“It is entirely too crowded in here,” Matoya declared, startling the soldiers while Aenor and Coultenet stiffened in attention. Good; they were learning. “Your part is done and we thank you for it,” she said to the soldiers. “Now get out. You,” she rounded on Aenor, taking perhaps some small delight in how the young woman’s eyes widened. “See to it that foppish elezen returns to his bed and _stays_ there this time--I don’t care how you keep him in it.”

At least Aenor had the thimble of grace required to blush at Matoya’s comment; she knew what that girl got up to with at least one of her colleagues, all while making eyes at others. Coultenet merely scowled, but seemed to think better of arguing. He held the door for the soldiers and Aenor, giving Matoya an exaggerated bow before he closed it, cheeky man.

The infirmary was utterly silent, the shallow breathing of the sleeping Scions making no real sound. Not to her dulled hearing, in any case.

Matoya closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. She refused to allow more than that, much as her body demanded she give in to her fear, her grief, her weariness. Such nonsense would not help her Shtola, or studious Urianger, or troublesome Thancred. It would not help Louisoix’s grandchildren.

“Blasted old fool,” she muttered. “I almost wish you were here. No, you had to go and nobly sacrifice yourself to save the world. Hrmph. They had damned well better not follow your example quite yet, or I swear I shall find a way to drag you back from the Lifestream to give you a piece of my mind.”

She looked down at Alphinaud, recalling his stricken face after sending their Warrior of Light into the Antitower. “Nevermind what I said then,” she said, as if replying to a comment the boy could not currently make. “That was _her_ choice-- _this_ is something else entirely, and I shall _not_ have you all lost at once to some specter’s whims.”

Else when her time came to join the Lifestream, Louisoix wouldn’t let her hear the end of it.

“Three have joined you far too soon already,” Matoya grumbled, recalling also the brilliant lalafell and his Ala Mhigan companion. “I’ll be damned I let another beat me to the grave.”

She had told the Scions’ champion to stop worrying, to keep focused on the myriad other duties and events currently demanding the hero’s attention. Matoya cared not if her words were heeded; they had been as much for herself, after all.

The souls of Louisoix’s students were resilient; he had chosen them for how brightly, how stubbornly, they shone, did he not?

And since the old fool wasn’t here, well, Matoya herself was just going to have to see to it that their wayward children all made it home again.

How bloody typical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to write something for this old crone for months, but she's awfully stubborn. Then 4.5 happened, and I wondered if she'd actually make even a brief trip to Mor Dhona. Mostly cuz I wanna see her terrorizing the Rising Stones crew, but hey.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krile and Tataru try not to feel overwhelmed.

Krile didn’t even realize she was not alone until a plate with warm, steaming dumplings was set on the desk near her right hand, followed half a tick later by a mug of hot black tea.

“There we are,” Tataru said. “Mustn’t let you forget to keep up your strength, after everything.”

Krile blinked, and then smiled. “Thank you, Tataru. I’m afraid I became lost in my studies.”

“I’m used to it,” Tataru said with a small giggle, though her typical smile faded faster than Krile liked. “This is a recipe Higiri taught me; simple, quick, and quite filling. Easy to pick up and eat, too--once they’ve cooled, that is--perfect for scholars lost in their books!”

“I appreciate it,” Krile stretched and yawned. “Truth be told, however, I could probably do with a break.”

“You have been at this desk awhile,” Tataru replied. “Why not leave the dumplings and tea to cool and we take a brief walk? I daresay we could both use the company.”

“That sounds lovely,” Krile agreed, rising from her chair. It was one of the few around the Rising Stones sized for lalafell, and a favorite of hers.

The Rising Stones was quiet this time of the evening; everyone else was either preparing to settle down for the night, or were out on assignments--Hoary and Coultenet, for instance, were on a quick jaunt to the border of Gridania and Coerthas, to see if they needed to call in Arenvald’s team to handle Garuda. Whatever else, the Scions continued their duties for the realm.

Even as the Archons and the Leveilleur twins slumbered.

“You’ve been working too hard,” Tataru said as they stepped outside. Mor Dhona’s aetheric gloom had settled over the town, leaving everything in a purple haze. Krile liked it, in a way; it was different from anywhere else in the realm. “Cid and the scholars of Saint Coinach’s should find that beacon soon,” the receptionist continued.

“That is the hope,” Krile agreed. “As I still haven’t found a way to draw the others’ souls back.” She sighed. “I wish we didn’t have to send our friend into such unknown danger yet again.”

Tataru didn’t answer at first, as they made a circuit around the square, waving to the familiar faces that hailed them as they passed. There was young Arya, asking visiting adventurer spellcasters for information as she studied. Slafborn waved to them while arguing with one of Rowena’s girls. The skywatcher called that the fog should lift soon, and a miqo’te child dashed about, seeking her mother’s carbuncle ( _almost_ as troublesome as Tataru’s, that one).

“I think,” Tataru said slowly. “That’s it’s almost a relief; rather than sitting around waiting for our casters to find a solution, diving headfirst into danger to mount a rescue is, well, what the Warrior of Light is _good_ at. And anything’s better than facing that _thing_ wearing Zenos’ body again.”

“I don’t know,” Krile replied. “We have no idea what’s waiting on the other end of that beacon.” She looked toward the Crystal Tower in the distance. “I have the Echo as well; perhaps I could g--”

“Don’t you dare!” Tataru exclaimed. She took a breath and failed to lower her voice. “You’re still recovering from what happened to you in Ala Mhigo, and everything with Eureka--”

“Tataru--”

“And you’re not a combatant, not like the others and if it is dangerous, you’ll only feel bad about needing protection--”

“ _Tataru_ \--”

“And I can’t have you _all_ leave!” the other woman blurted out, tears threatening to spill from her violet eyes.

There it was, then.

“Of course you’re right,” Krile said gently as Tataru struggled to regain control. “We can’t all rush off to be heroes; there’s plenty to do here yet. I dare say we shall have our hands full, keeping everyone else organized, as well as coordinating with the Alliance and our other allies; you’re quite good at that.”

“I’m sorry,” Tataru said, wiping her eyes. “It’s just all so overwhelming, isn’t it? It leaves me feeling so…”

“Helpless,” Krile finished quietly. She sighed. “I well know the feeling. But the Light is on our side, is it not? Our dear friend will play the hero’s part, and bring the others home--and then…”

What did come next?

“They’ll defeat the Ascian, and the Empire will fall with it,” Tataru said, though her voice still wavered slightly.

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Krile replied. “But it _is_ a nice thought, I admit. After all they’ve done--what I’ve seen…” The memories of the raid on Rhalgr’s Reach and the experimentation in the Resonatorium threatened to rise up, flashing behind her eyes, a chill running through her.

Tataru put a hand on her arm. “One step at a time,” she agreed. “Come on then; let’s start with not letting your supper get too cold.”

Krile smiled and nodded, the memories disrupted and fading--for now--and the two women turned their steps toward home. Just before they passed through the door, Krile spared one last glance at the gleaming tower beyond the town walls. She wondered again at the secrets it held, the adventure waiting within its shining structure. That, however, was for others to discover.

The Scions entered the Rising Stones, and returned to their work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this might really, actually, be the end this time. Not sure I am happy with this chapter, but as _Stormblood_ comes to a close and _Shadowbringers_ begins, here are two more Scion ladies I've been wanting to write for awhile. It's tough, not being the heroic types in an organization of heroes. But someone has to keep things in order, and hold the fort.


End file.
